


Put Our Backs to the North Wind

by sinfuldesire_archivist



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, During Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-12
Updated: 2007-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-03 15:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8718859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinfuldesire_archivist/pseuds/sinfuldesire_archivist
Summary: Amnesia!fic. "Were we always like. Like this?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the Sinful Desire archivists: this story was originally archived at [Sinful-Desire.org](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Sinful_Desire). To preserve the archive, we began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in November 2016. We e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [Sinful Desire collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/sinfuldesire/profile).

**put our backs to the north wind.**  
SPN. Sam/Dean, R. 1140 words. Amnesia!fic. Warnings for incest and language. Betaed by my dearest [ ](http://la-folle-allure.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://la-folle-allure.livejournal.com/)**la_folle_allure**. Title from Jethro Tull.  
  
  
A sigh, and the rustle of stiff, motel sheets when he shifts his weight and settles onto his back. Another, sated, and then the question.  
  
_Were we always like. Like this?_  
  
His fingers just barely rake over Dean's forearm, and he pulls his hand away when his brother shrugs, harder to do lying down.  
  
A short laugh, a muffled gunshot.  
  
_Were we ever?_  
  
He rolls over and his feet hit the floor hard and fast, too loud for their post-coital quiet and the crickets outside the half-open window with a salt line stretched across the sill.  
  
He stops at the bathroom door, his hand on the knob, and without turning:  
  
_You were always leaving. We never had the time._  
  
The quiet click of the lock sounds worse than if he'd slammed it.  
  
::  
  
-Tell me. Tell me and maybe I'll remember.  
  
-You won't. You don't even know what did this to you. Eyes on the goddamn target.  
  
-I remember this. I can remember the rest. Tell me, Dean. Please.  
  
-Don't—don't say my name like that. It never sounded that way. I mean— _fuck_. Aim higher.  
  
::  
  
Sam's breathing ragged into his ear, his throat like sandpaper and his grip a little too hard on Dean's dick, his other hand too gentle on Dean's nipple.  
  
_Like this_ , he says, waiting for confirmation. Dean gives it to him with the creaking arch of spine, with the pulse of precome slippery against Sam's fingers.  
  
_Beautiful_ , Sam whispers, awed. _You're so beautiful like this. I should rem—_  
  
And Dean growls, animal, guttural, and he comes hot and slick over his brother's hand. Spit, sweat, salt, come—they're sticky, dirty, and the sheets are damp. This is familiar.  
  
Morning raps at their window and Dean sits up, shaky.  
  
_Go take a shower_ , he orders. _I'm going for a run._  
  
::  
  
-Why?  
  
-Why what? Aim _higher_.  
  
-Why did I leave?  
  
-The fuck should I know, Sam? You—you left because you didn't want our life anymore. Didn't want your family, or me. You just _did_ it. Jesus, are you even _trying_ to hit the—  
  
-Goddamnit, _yes_. So why did I—  
  
-Fuck, all right, this is useless. C'mon inside—you've got symbols to study.  
  
::  
  
Sam pushes inside him with two fingers. Dean's still loose, open from before, and he groans into the pillow, tightens his hands in the sheets. Sam pulls out, trailing over the back of Dean's thigh, then spreading his brother and dipping his head to lick, hard and insisting.  
  
_Jesus fuckin'— **Sam**._  
  
Sam replaces his tongue with a fingertip, tracing slow around Dean's rim.  
  
_I want to remember_ , he says, breath hot and sour at the nape of Dean's neck. _I want—you've gotta help me, man. Tell me things. Anything. Anything that might help._  
  
_Christ, **okay**. God. What'd'you— **fuck** —what do you wanna know?_  
  
::  
  
_Mexico_ , Dean says, holding up the four-by-six with two fingers. _New millennium, you know? We both got drunk off our asses. This one, we were in California. Before you left. You wanted to see the beach, and Dad just wanted us out of his way. Some tourist took it. Mailed it to our box. We keep a box in Wisconsin._  
  
_Wisconsin_ , Sam repeats, tasting it for any hint of memory. _We keep a box in Wisconsin. Okay._  
  
He takes the picture from Dean's hand. The two of them, arms over each other's shoulders, their chests bare in the sun. Dean's got freckles and a smattering of sunburn, and he's grinning like Sam doesn't think he's seen, yet. But maybe he remembers. Maybe.  
  
_This_ , Dean says, _is mom. You were six months old when she was killed._  
  
_Hunting?_ Sam asks, studying the photograph. It's black and white, a portrait, creased where it's been folded in fourths, carried at length in a wallet or pocket. The woman, their mother—she's beautiful. She's smiling and beautiful.  
  
_No. She was. She—_ Dean runs a hand over his face, sighs. _This is why we started_ , he says. _It's why you left._  
  
::  
  
-So why'd I come back?  
  
-You ever gonna stop asking questions?  
  
-I'm the little brother, right? I'm _supposed_ to be a whiny bitch. Tell me.  
  
-You came back because. Because you fell in love.  
  
-Because I—what?  
  
-And she died. You were in love with her and she got killed same way mom did. So you came back.  
  
-What was— _goddamnit_ , I should remember this.  
  
-Jessica. Her name was Jessica. You were looking at rings.  
  
-I—okay. Okay. Thanks, man.  
  
::  
  
_This one_ —he laughs, then hands it over. It's blurry, dark, and it takes Sam a moment to realize what he's seeing. It's them, smeared across the picture, but he can tell Dean's smiling against his lips. He looks surprised, and Sam looks pleased. In the picture, Sam's hand is fisted in Dean's jacket, and Sam's tongue is pushing into Dean's mouth.  
  
Dean tells him: _We found a disposable camera on the side of the road. Dad was gone. Took a few pictures of us. I, uh. I had to burn the rest; thought dad was gonna find them and skin me alive._  
  
Sam laughs, and it's a good sound to hear. _That bad?_ He's doubtful.  
  
_Dude. You were **fifteen**. Can you imagine what he'd—anyway. We were just fucking around. You had the camera. Pulled me in last second, took the picture. I kept it hidden under my mattress for a year._  
  
Sam's smiling. _Shame you got rid of the others. Maybe I could've learned some things, huh?_   
  
He shifts his weight on the bed, and his hand settles between Dean's legs, cupping him through his jeans. He grins. _But I'm thinkin',_ he says, _I'm thinking maybe I can figure some of it out myself, too._  
  
::  
  
-Yeah, yeah, there. Right—oh, god.  
  
-S'it good? That good, Dean? You gotta tell me. You know I don't—  
  
-Sam, Sammy, just keep—  
  
-Yeah, that's it. Tell me what you want. I want to remember this. Come on.  
  
::  
  
_This is you. First grade. We couldn't afford the pictures, so I cut it out of the school library's yearbook. You were fucking terrified they'd know it was 'cause of you. Pretty funny, actually. And this's the latest we've got. Jo took it a few weeks before that thing took your memory._  
  
He holds it up. A polaroid, just the two of them, sitting on the hood of the Chevy. Sam's laughing, hands in his pockets, and Dean looks pissed, like he wants to be halfway across the country by now, and they're just wasting his time.  
  
It's perfect.  
  
::  
  
-What if I never remember? What if I just—  
  
-Then you don't remember and I remember for you, okay? I'll fill in the blanks, Sammy. Whatever you wanna know, I'll try to remember for you. It'll be fine.  
  
-Okay. Yeah. It'll be fine.  
 


End file.
